


Dogs Were Barking

by tigers_bedtime



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:31:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigers_bedtime/pseuds/tigers_bedtime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I saw you and Wilson in <i>la cafetería</i> earlier this week." He tosses the orange peel on the table and steals her Blue Moon, taking a long swig. "That's Spanish for 'cafeteria,'" he adds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dogs Were Barking

**Author's Note:**

> Backdated work [2008]. Title taken from a song of the same name by Gogol Bordello. Prompt: _animal: A person who behaves in a bestial or brutish manner_.

By the time she steps out of the shower, dries off, and slips into her underwear, Cameron's sweating again. It's good sweat, though, clean sweat, and it's the price she pays for keeping her windows open in June.

She's just slept off a night shift, and now she's enjoying her first Friday evening away from work in over a month. Cameron sighs as she combs the tangles out of her hair. Pager off, cell on vibrate. It's a night for herself.

She gets ready slowly, contentedly, Bruce Springsteen playing in the background and a glass of white wine in front of her. The peach-colored dress hangs over her desk chair, and the sandals wait on the floor next to her closet. Light on the makeup; soft, floral perfume.

At 8:15 exactly she locks her apartment door and meets the cab waiting for her.

It's a low-key place, one of her favorites. Its walls are a deep orange, with low, red lights and booths of dark wood. Cameron sits at a small table in the back, and the waiter with curly brown hair flirts with her as she orders her drink. He's way too young for her, but that doesn't stop her from flirting back.

Cameron's reminded that it's been kind of a long time since she's had sex. (Not since Chase in his apartment before work, too many months ago. They were both angry and that almost made it better. Chase liked to go down on her, liked to please her and show off at the same time, and he did, that last time. He was good at it too, which made things harder when she wanted to break it off).

She doesn't really like the band. Modern jazz never made much sense to her, but the gin and tonic is really good. The drink is cool and strong and it burns her lips. She licks the lime juice off her thumb, slides the wetness along her collarbone, taps her foot against the leg of the table.

A half an hour goes by and Cameron's feeling pretty good. She's even starting to like the music. Just as the waiter (Dave, a recent BU graduate who'd studied poli sci, she learned) leaves her the next drink, someone sits in the empty chair across from her.

Before she can speak, he steals the orange slice from the rim of her glass and munches on it, eyes fixed on the small stage, with his hands resting on his cane.

"You left your Blackberry in your bag," he explains. She stares at him. "And you left your bag on a chair in the first floor lounge for a concerned citizen to examine... and then rummage through. _Clementine's, 8:30_."

She smirks. "I guess that makes you late."

"Fashionably."

Neither of them says anything for a couple minutes. She glances over at him once; he appears to be listening to the music, though she can't imagine he likes it much either. She's kind of pissed that he's here, but less so when his knees knock against hers under the table as he swivels toward her, the song having ended and the room filling with quiet applause.

"I saw you and Wilson in _la cafetería_ earlier this week." He tosses the orange peel on the table and steals her Blue Moon, taking a long swig. "That's Spanish for 'cafeteria,'" he adds.

Ah. One cup of coffee after a consult on Tuesday. It hadn't been a good day. She'd put her hand on Wilson's – the kid only had eight months to live, and someone would have to tell his mother when she flew in from Pittsburgh. House had walked by with a carton of chocolate milk in his hand, and at the time he'd only offered an ungracious snort before he'd walked off.

Now she's receiving the aftershock.

Cameron shrugs, "It was a bad day."

"You do understand that all he has to do is flash you with those puppy dog eyes – and, believe me, there's no resisting them -- and the next thing you know you're in his office one late night after another _bad day_ , on your knees in front of him, his pants around his ankles." The attack is in standard form, but it lacks the usual bite, instead coming out more like a whine.

She laughs. "I realize who I'm talking to here, but I should still say - don't be ridiculous. You're trying to provoke me." Cameron slides her beer back and tells him, patiently, "This isn't about Wilson. Why are you really here?"

"I don't like it."

"What?"

He rolls his eyes. Another song begins and he has to speak a little louder. "You cozying up to Wilson. You working in the ER, a job that we both know is a complete waste of even the basest intelligence."

"That's... not really my problem. Though not surprising, given that you can't stand to be ignored, and you need to have a psychological death grip on everyone around you, and if they're not at your beck and call... What, you don't want me to keep going?" She trails off because he's shaking his head.

Eyes on the band, he says, irritably, "I like you."

Cameron laughs, chokes a little on her drink and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. She stares at him, waiting for the punch line.

"No, you don't," she answers, blinking.

She tries to think of something else to say, like maybe _I don't give a damn_ , or _You know, there are women who will pay attention to you if you just give them a little money_ , because that would be the smart thing to do. But Cameron's heart is beating fast in her chest and maybe she did have too much to drink, because now he's looking at her like he only sometimes does, in those brief, rare moments when they're actually straightforward with each other, but always one of them backs up or gets angry or whatever.

Cameron digs through her purse for her wallet, shaking her head. "No. We've been through this. It always ends the same." She stands and tries to walk past him, but he bars the way with his cane. She glances angrily down at him, thinking of all the history and all the reasons why not.

But right now he's looking at her like that, and her hands don't shake at all as she pays the bill.

***

She takes her sandals off at the door, one at a time. She's only slightly apprehensive, and for the moment, at least, she doesn't regret getting on the bike.

Cameron smoothes her hair as she straightens up, and he's there, five feet away, staring at her. They're standing in the almost the same positions as that night four years ago, when she came to tell him that she was quitting, only this time she's got blonde hair and nobody's holding their hand out. Her stomach growls.

He raises an eyebrow.

"I skipped dinner."

"Bad idea."

"Yeah, it was."

He just watches her, and she doesn't know what to say, so she walks over to the piano. There's never any sheet music here. She presses a key on the left down with the knuckle of her forefinger, holds it down, lets the low note reverberate through the room.

"C-sharp," he says, slowly walking up behind her, leaning on his cane.

She pushes another.

"F," he says, and slides a hand on the small of her back.

She only hesitates for a second before pressing one more, the lowest on the piano.

"A." His chin's on her shoulder, scraping across. "I have perfect pitch, you know."

"No, you don't."

She turns around and he suddenly has her pressed into the piano. Before she can think she's got her hand at his neck, fingers curling against his warm skin and stretching the collar of his t-shirt towards her as she lets him kiss her. Her other hand is braced behind her on the edge of the piano, and the keys cut into her rear, their efforts composing a dissonant tune. It's not at all like kissing him last year, and not just because there's no syringe in her pocket.

This is a bad idea. It was a bad idea four years ago and it's a bad idea now, but Cameron really doesn't care because he's bent his head against her neck like he really did miss her, one thin strap of her dress slipping down, and he stays there, open-mouthed against her skin.

"Baby," he mumbles, drawing his mouth across her shoulder.

Cameron opens her eyes. "Excuse me?"

"Baby grand. Off." He pulls her forward and they stumble around the piano bench.

He follows her all the way to the bedroom.

***

Later, she wakes up to the sounds of him in the kitchen, of wrappers crinkling and cabinets opening and closing. It's 3 AM. The smell of popcorn makes its way to where she's lying in bed. Her body immediately responds at the thought of the salty softness filling her belly.

Cameron finds his t-shirt on the floor by the light filtering in through the blinds, and the cool material slips over her skin. She hears the bell of the microwave and heads eagerly into the kitchen.


End file.
